


Splatter Patterns

by beezee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Art, Art Critic!Sherlock, Artist!John, M/M, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beezee/pseuds/beezee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Sherlock Holmes, renowned art critic, doesn't remember the last time he really liked a painting. The uni student John Watson comes to change it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there,  
> It's been a while since I wrote something, but I couldn't resist.  
> I hope you enjoy.

The gallery was full of people and whispered conversations, but Sherlock was oblivious of them all. His headphones were blasting Wagner as he walked through the place. Normally he would only take seconds observing each painting, cataloging what is worth in his Mind Palace and soon he would be striding for the next one. It has been a while since something really caught his attention, all the new works being boring and predictable. He could read each stroke of the brush and tell what the artist was trying to say – and they were all so annoyingly unimaginative.

He stopped in front of another one. Sherlock was already thinking of all the better things he could be doing instead, his fingers moving along with the music in an invisible violin, when his breathing stuttered. He took a step back. The seconds ticked by as he observed the painting in front of him, his mind trying to absorb it all. Everything he though he knew was brushed aside as he observed the next stroke. _How could…?_ And, for the first time in a very long time, Sherlock Holmes, renowned art critic, didn’t know what to think.

_Watson_ was the name at the bottom corner of the painting.


	2. Chapter One

The only sounds on the room was the pencils against the papers. At the center, a beautiful woman was naked, her black hair falling in waves on her back. Ms. Andrews circled the class, looking at the work of her students, but time and time again she glanced at the clock. Five minutes before the time, she had enough.

“Ok. You can pack your things. We’re done for today”. And faster than anyone, she was out of the room. The woman left little after, a red dressing gown over her body.

“John, this is gorgeous!” The boy never noticed Molly’s arrival, still filling the curls of the woman’s hair. John smiled, smudging the drawing with a finger as Molly continued “I always get her front and have to draw her thingies.”

John laughed, looking at his friend. “We can switch places next time. I wouldn’t mind.”

“John Watson, she’s much older than you!” Mary appeared on his other side, feigning horror, everything already packed.

John only smiled, putting the drawing in his folder. After throwing his backpack on his shoulder, they left the room. “Did you notice how Ms. Andrews was weird today?” he asked as they walked down the corridor.

The girls glanced at each other. Mary opened her bag and grabbed a newspaper. “Holmes wrote about her.” She opened the right page, giving it to John. They walked in silence as he read. John groaned and smashed it into a ball. “Hey, I was going to do the crosswords.” Mary whined.

“He really doesn’t care, right? That we are people.” John binned the newspaper, angry. “All he cares for is his fucking giant brain.” They walked in silence for a while. John was too annoyed to talk. The girls didn’t know how to answer.

“How do you think he knows?” Molly almost whispered. “About her cheating on her husband?”

“From the way she used purple on the edges or some other bollocks.” John grumbled, exiting the building. Mary held his arm before he could escape.

“John, we know that you are worried.”

He looked from one friend to another. His shoulders sagged. They walked together, John looking straight ahead.

“Maybe he won’t go to the exhibition. And there will be lots of paintings, he won’t write about you.” Molly always tried to cheer him up, never with the best lines.

“I’m aiming for being memorable, Mol.” Mary glared at her over his shoulder. “But, yeah, maybe it’s good if he doesn’t pay attention this time. I don’t wanna be next week’s joke.”

“You’ll gonna be okay, John. Your work is amazing.” Mary hugged him, giving a kiss on his cheek. He blushed and shrugged, but there’s a smile at the corner of his lips.

Molly squeezed his arm and smiled.

“Ta. I better go. Bye, ladies. See you tomorrow.” John waved at them, walking backwards a few steps until turning his body and going to the tube.

The platform was crowded and inside the car wasn’t any better. He tried to hold himself when they started moving, but his hand brushed against a man’s scarf, the blue now smudged with black. “Oh, Christ, so sorry.” John looked up to find himself being observed by clear blue eyes.

“Slade or Blake?” The man’s deep voice asked and John gaped, only a little. He was gorgeous, maybe a few years older than him, with black curls John would love to draw.

“What…?”

“Don’t be stupid. I asked if you study at Slade or Blake. You’re obviously an art student, considering the folder you are carrying and how my scarf is now dirty with graffiti. From where we are, you study at one of the two. You have walked some blocks, probably accompanying someone.” The man cocked his head. “Your girlfriend, I see. Blond girl with pink lipstick still smeared on your cheek.”

John cleaned his cheek with the back of his hand. His eyes were big, trying to understand how this stranger could know so much. As the tube decelerated, their bodies pressed against each other.

“Oh” the man continues. A tiny smile appeared on his lips. “So she’s not your girlfriend.”

John blushed and averted his eyes. “Amazing”. The words tumbled out of his lips in a murmur, the sound engulfed by the noises of the car and the people. He didn’t know if the man heard him, but the shocked look in his face was confusing.

As soon as the doors opened, the mysterious brunet disappeared with the crowd.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support. <3

The great corridors of Sherlock’s Mind Palace had blank walls. Of course he had rooms full of the masters, and a dungeon where he threw everything unworthy, but the halls and corridors were bare. Sometimes he sat on the floor and looked at the wall, because art became tiresome. He was a little child when his mother began to teach him about art. She loved Degas’ ballerinas and the gardens from Monet. Sherlock had a room full of memories of afternoons at museums with his mother. He never entered the room after her death. So he sat in front of that door, looking at the blank wall straight ahead and hoped that something interesting would happen.

“Shelock.” An impatient voice called, as if it wasn’t the first time. He blinked his eyes open to see Irene towering over the sofa he was laid. “Look who is alive. I though we’ve lost you for good this time.” She didn’t sound a little bit concerned.

“What are you doing here?” He rolled to a sitting position, a little tangled at the blue dressing gown.

Irene rolled her eyes. She was dressed in a beautiful black dress and high heels, her hair perfectly coiffed. She just sat at one armchair and waited the deductions. Sherlock observed her, looked at the newspaper on the floor and groaned.

“The opening.”

Irene let a small smile appear on her red lips. “I know you hate it, and will be annoying me endlessly throughout the night, but Lestrade already called me to make sure you’ll be there.”

Sherlock got up and searched in the mess of his desk for his patches. Letting the dressing gown fall to the floor, he promptly put three on the inside of his forearm and left the room. Irene waited patiently, flipping through her phone. Every opening was the same.

“Just a little talk and some champagne” she told loudly as Sherlock exited the bathroom. “And then you can listen to your Wagner and do your thing. I’ll find other ways to amuse myself.”

“Is there anyone of our acquaintances that doesn’t want to murder us?” Sherlock replied while dressing himself.

“Murder you, my love.” She looked at him, appraising his choice of outfit with a nod. “I have nothing to do with the things you write. I even get some sympathy when they learn I’m your friend.”

Sherlock ignored her, making sure his headphones were working. If he had to do this, at least would be on his terms. Wagner was perfect for cleaning his mind and shutting out all the annoying conversations at the galleries. And it helped to make sure no one would try to talk to him.

His phone beeped on his hand. Lestrade, of course.

_Hope you will like something today. And won’t destroy another career. – GL_

“Stop sneering at your phone and let’s go.” Irene was already at the door, dressed with her coat.

Sherlock put his coat and scarf, the headphones around his neck and the phone at the coat’s pocket.

At the taxi, Irene frowned. She licked her finger and raised her hand at the gray smudge at his scarf. It got a little better.

“Are you trying to learn how to draw, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I know how to draw, Ms. Adler. I just don’t have the patience for such a boring art.” He looked down, twisting his scarf until the stain got hidden in the folds. “It’s nothing, just bumped into someone at the tube.” He could remember the boy’s eyes full of wonder, but ignored the memory the following second as the taxi arrived its destination.

The place was full of idiots. Young wannabe artists, with their hipster clothes and big glasses, trying to appear so intelligent. Old women shining with their best jewelry and feigning appreciation for the contemporary art. Other critics with their notebooks and little brains. Sherlock was about to open his mouth and deduce the life of a girl, just to pass the time, when Irene arrived with two champagne flutes.

“One drink first.” She smiled and handed him one of the flutes. “May this one not be as boring as the last.”

Sherlock gave her a tiny smile and downed his drink. “Time to do my thing.” He plugged his headphones.

Wagner blocked out all of the conversations.


	4. Chapter Three

They were at Molly and Mary’s, since it was just a cheap cab ride to the gallery. Their flat was tiny, but John adored the place and how it always smelled like home – paint, food, tea and happiness. The girls wore dresses and high heels, doing their makeup and bantering. John wasn’t paying any attention to them from his place on the sofa. Already dressed in his best black trousers and dark blue shirt, a cup of tea getting cold in his hand, John was more nervous he would admit. It would be the first time of one of his paintings in a real gallery and he had worked really hard to get there. The girls’ laughter died down as they look at their friend.

“John, you need something stronger than tea.” Mary’s heels clicked through the floor. She crouched in front of him, catching his eyes. “I think we have some vodka left from our last party.”

John smiled at her. “There will be drinks there. I don’t think me vomiting would add to my piece.”

Mary snorted and stood up. “C’mom, gorgeous boy. It’s your night.” She extended her hand and he took it.

Molly was holding his coat. John put his arms through the sleeves and shrugged it in place. “And you two need to stop pampering me.”

“Maybe when our works get to a gallery you can do the same.” Molly gave him his black scarf, smiling. He grinned and looped the scarf around his neck.

“That’s a deal.” He hold out an arm for each girl and they left the flat.

***

They were one of the firsts to arrive. The place was amazing, spacious, with art hanging on every wall and the perfect illumination. John was met with a firm handshake and a smile from the curator. A lot of people seemed impressed by his work. A group of older women couldn’t believe such a young man could be that talented.

“How old are you?” One of them asked.

“Twenty-two, Ma’am.” And he gave the woman his best smile.

“Aren’t you a darling?”

Mary and Molly giggled behind him. He looked at them over his shoulder.

“We are going to get something to drink.” Molly said, now that they had his attention. “Do you want to come?”

John hesitated, looking between his friends and the women. The one who asked his age soon noticed his dilemma:

“Go on, you won’t want to spend the night with us when such pretty ladies are the other option.”

John could swear Molly blushed a little, but no one mentioned. He smiled charmingly again.

“Thank you all for the compliments. Hope you enjoy your evening.”

As they approached the bar, Mary noticed a familiar face. She elbowed her friends. Irene, the model of their observational drawing class, looking like she owned the place. She gave them a little smile in recognition and left the bar with two flutes of champagne.

“Who do you think she came with?” Molly got on her tiptoes to better see where the woman went. “I think I never saw her outside our class.”

“Is that weird that I almost didn’t recognize her clothed?” John asked, smirking. He ordered a gin tonic from the barman. He looked up to Mary, waiting to see want she’d want. Mary was quiet, her eyes glued on the other side of the room. Molly was exactly the same.

John turned and followed their gaze. Drinking with Irene was a tall man, with black curls and a blue scarf, that John never imagined he would see again. He never told his friends what happened on the tube.

“I think--. I think he’s Sherlock Holmes.” Mary whispered.

“WHAT?” John almost spilled the gin tonic on his shirt from the abrupt movement. He looked from one girl to another, sighed and drank half his glass.

How could the amazing man from the tube be the one writing those articles and wrecking artist lives? And how could John didn’t noticed before, considering he was rendered speechless when deduced by him? He felt bloody stupid.

Mary was the first to look away. “Let’s drink and forget about him.” She took one of the champagne flutes, urging Molly to do the same. The brunette took some seconds to realize she was gaping at Holmes and immediately grabbed a flute. “For you, John. This will be the first of many openings.” Mary raised her glass.

“For all of us.” His smile was a little forced, but they toasted and drank.

***

The evening was lovely. Some other people came to congratulate him, including two of their teachers. John smiled and small talked, almost forgetting the figure circling the room and observing each piece.

Until Molly held his hand and gestured behind them. There, in front of his best painting, the one that took weeks of work and such an emotional exhaustion, was Sherlock Holmes. He was engulfed by the size of it, the blues above and the yellows below. From where John was standing he couldn’t see the red, but he knew Holmes was looking right at it.

The seconds passed and he didn’t move. Some heads began to turn, since was so unusual that he spared more than a glance for each work. Then Holmes turned around and his voice boomed through the place.

“WATSON. WHO IS WATSON?”

Molly squeezed his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the cliffhanger. ;)  
> thank you all. <3


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're all amazing.  
> <3

_Watson_ was the name at the bottom corner of the painting.

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned around.

“WATSON. WHO IS WATSON?”

His voice echoed. The only sounds were the awful lounge music and the Wagner in his headphones. He lowered those to his neck, looking around the place. Donovan and Anderson, two of the most stupid art critics of London, smiled with glee as they always hoped to see Sherlock make a scene. He ignored them instantly.

Some heads began to turn, the crowd parting and a boy walked in his direction.

Not any boy, but the one from the tube. The one who stained Sherlock’s scarf. Whose eyes were full of wonder after the deductions. But now there wasn’t any trace of that. Behind the dark blue eyes was a simmering fury. He was ready for battle.

Sherlock stood in silence, his eyes raking Watson up and down. He thought that if he saw the artist the intent behind the painting would be obvious, but he couldn’t be more wrong. Early twenties; living alone by the way his shirt was pressed; the quality of the clothes was an indication of short income, probably a part-time job to pay the uni; his posture, with straight shoulders and hands behind his back, looked military, but he hadn’t serve, so it was his father, now dead. In his mind he evoked the image of the painting even though it was just behind him.

“You can take a bloody photo if you want.”

The boy’s voice threw Sherlock from his deductions. Normally people were afraid of him, it was never like this. He blinked slowly, putting back the neutral mask.

“That won’t be necessary.”

And, without looking back, Sherlock left the gallery.

***

Irene found him in an alley outside. He was smoking, his eyes closed but moving behind the lids. So much he couldn’t understand.

“I thought the patches were to avoid that.”

Sherlock just groaned, opening one eye to look at her.

“Who is he?”

“Oh, my. Is this the day you were caught by surprise?” Irene had a sadistic smile on her lips.

He just rolled his eyes and threw the cigarette’s butt away.

“If you can’t help, be quiet.” He started walking to the other end of the alley. “I believe you can find your way home.”

Irene cocked her head, looking almost fondly at her friend. She raised her voice to be heard:

“His name is John Watson. He saw me naked innumerous times.”

Sherlock glared at her over his shoulders, but he knew what that meant. He had more information, at least.

The front hall of his Mind Palace now had a painting. Expressionist strokes of blue skies and yellow sands. Right at the middle, a life sized body bleeding to his death.


	6. Chapter Five

“WATSON. WHO IS WATSON?”

Molly squeezed his hand. John was terrified, he’d be slaughtered in front of everyone. Mary held his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“Doesn’t matter what that bastard says, you’re amazing.”

John glanced at her over his shoulder and nodded. With an answering squeeze on Molly’s hand before letting go, he crossed the room, the crowd opening for him. He wouldn’t let Sherlock fucking Holmes ruin his night, even less his self-esteem. The military position his father engrained in his brain since childhood made him feel bigger and courageous. And, without hesitation, John stared at Holmes’ eyes.

The words that everyone at the room were expecting didn’t come. Holmes stayed silent, his eyes reading John as he was a book. Someone coughed. The sound of glasses against the bar could be heard across the place. John could hear the blood on his ears. He fisted his hands behind his back, losing his temper.

“You can take a bloody photo if you want.” His voice was rough, but snapped Holmes from his mind. John could swear he saw doubt on the man’s face, but the next second it was all indifference.

“That won’t be necessary.”

John closed his eyes as Holmes stormed away. With a deep breath, he opened them again and stared at his painting. Even without clear contours, he could see perfectly the figure dying. It was his father, his father’s friends, strangers and himself. The piece always made him feel bittersweet. John’s heart tugged and he nodded. Nothing would take this from him.

***

The next day, John was organizing his paints when Molly arrived. He had paint all over his hands. He shouted:

“Come in. I think it’s open.”

She smiled shyly at him, closing the door behind her. She approach her and kissed her cheek, careful with his hands.

“Mary wanted to be here, but you know how her family is on Saturdays.” They normally stayed at the girls’ flat, so she looked around a little uncomfortable. John washed his hand on the little bathroom, his head poking out the door as he dried them.

“It’s ok. You can sit anywhere, y’know.”

Molly looked around. John’s flat was bigger than hers, but was actually an attic. The only walls were the ones of the bathroom, everything else jumbled at the same space. The “bedroom” had a curtain separating it from the rest. Even with John trying to be organized, it was chaotic. The sofa had piles of papers and notebooks, but she managed to find a spot.

“I brought banoffee pie.” She told him as he got to the “living-room”.

“Thank you, but I’m not worried.” He was. After the awkward moment at the gallery, everyone was assuming the next days’ column would talk about John.

“I know you’re not.” Molly smiled innocently. “Just thought it would be nice to eat something different tonight.”

John could see right through her, but he was glad that she understood he didn’t want to dwell on that right now. He put the pie on the fridge while they chose a takeaway and waited. After they finished their thay and two episodes of Doctor Who, John was silent. Molly cleared the boxes and got the pie. She cut two slices.

“I met him before.”

Molly almost dropped the spoons. “What? When?”

“Thursday, after class.” She sat and gave him one of the plates. “We bumped at the tube and he began to deduce my life.” John took a big piece and hummed in delight. “You’re an angel, Mol.” He swallowed before continuing. “He was amazing. He could tell where I was coming from, and he noticed Mary’s hair on my coat and her lipstick on my face. I didn’t recognize him, never knew Holmes’ face.”

Molly gave a little smile. “And he is gorgeous, right?”

John laughed. “You have no idea how bright are his eyes up close.”

Molly giggled. They ate in silence.

“But now—“ John swallowed his last bit. “Now I can’t even think about yesterday. I’m proud of my work, I really am. Just don’t wanna be a joke at Uni on Monday.”

Molly licked her spoon. “More pie?”

“Yes, please.”

***

John wanted to read alone. The girls complained, but he was serious. So, on Sunday morning, he went alone to buy the newspaper. Only after he had brewed a perfect cup of tea, and had two toast with jam, he sat on the bed to read. He took and deep breath and—

Not a single word about him.

Holmes only said how uninspired the exhibition was, with lot of amateur work. He complained about the music and light choices. The last paragraph was deducing how the relation of the curator with his son was inducing bad choices.

John didn’t understand. After all that scene, not a single word? He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed. Then his doorbell chimed. John frowned. The girls always climbed directly at his floor and knocked.

“Who is it?” He asked on the intercom.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're all amazing and I can't thank you enough.

Sherlock didn’t know what he would see at Watson’s flat, but he needed more pieces of the puzzle that was this boy. The painting wasn’t enough, seeing him at the gallery wasn’t enough, maybe looking at his place Sherlock would understand what made that piece so memorable.

There was a click and the door opened. Sherlock almost ran up the stairs, climbing three steps each time. He paused when he saw the flat’s door open. Watson stared at him with so many emotions and so fast that Sherlock had trouble reading. The boy just turned away, leaving the door open as an invitation.

Sherlock entered the flat, closing the door after himself. His mind instantly began deducing, from the handle of the door to the other painting on the walls. More answers were catalogued, but still—

“Why didn’t you write about me?” The voice was laced with confusion. Watson had his back to Sherlock, picking the newspaper from his bed.

Sherlock stood in front of a painting, this one over the couch. He heard the socked footsteps and saw the boy in his peripheral, he was also staring at the painting. The canvas was the size of the couch, trees formed by the brushes of paint.

“When I was young I got lost in the woods near our house” Watson’s voice was almost a murmur as if he didn’t want to break the moment.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock knew the whole story. “You were four. And wasn’t scared.”

“Five, actually.” He could hear the smile. “And no, I wasn’t. My father found me playing with a stick as a sword.”

Sherlock felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. He turned, seeking those eyes again. The boy blinked and turned too, looking up to him.

“I couldn’t write about something I didn’t understand.”

Watson frowned.

Sherlock started pacing across the room, his eyes darting everywhere. “I know, and this is driving me crazy. I can always tell everything I need to know in seconds. People are so boring and unimaginative. But you—“ Sherlock turned towards Watson and closed the space between them. “I can’t understand you. Every time I think I have an answer you throw me ten other questions.”

And then the boy smiled. A true and blinding smile that took Sherlock’s breath.

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

Sherlock looked, really looked at the boy in front of him. The socked feet, the dark jeans, the fitted white t-shirt, the stains of paint on his fingers and arms, the spec of jam on his upper lip, the blue eyes full of wonder again. Sherlock blinked and turned his head.

“You are painting something new.” And if his voice was a little bit rough than usual the boy didn’t seem no notice.

“Yeah.” John turned away and went toward the easel. And like that he became John in Sherlock’s mind, Watson didn’t fit right anymore. “I started yesterday, but you can try to guess what it is.”  

Sherlock followed him. “I never guess.”

John laughed, looking at him over his shoulder. “Right, deduce. I read your columns.”

The light fell perfectly at John, this spot having the best illumination of the flat, making him look even blonder than usual.

“You hate them. How I expose people’s lives and make them doubt their work.”

“Not that I didn’t agree with you sometimes, but you don’t have to be so harsh. I don’t know if my teacher’s marriage will survive your last week’s critic.” John stared at the canvas. There was only strokes of light green and blue on the bottom.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment. “You can punch me if you like. People usually want to.”

John laughed. “If this offer was last week, I wouldn’t even blink.”

“But now?”

John looked up at him and his eyes shined again. “Now I’ve met you.”

And before Sherlock could think better, he cupped the boy’s cheek and kissed him.


	8. Chapter Seven

He didn’t write about him. He came to his flat on a Sunday morning, observed and deduced. He talked a lot of confusing things that made John smile. He looked dashing in a suit and white shirt, even if it was so early and didn’t make much sense. His eyes were clear blue. And then he kissed John.

And John kissed back until there was no more air in their lungs.

“Mr. Holmes, I—“ John spoke against his lips.

“Sherlock. You can call me Sherlock.” And then he kissed John’s cheek, jaw and neck, inhaling deeply.

John felt his eyes flutter shut and he grabbed the man by the waist. A lick at his neck made him shiver.

“You’re trying to deduce based on my taste, now?”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, licking the column of John’s neck. John tried to keep his knees from buckling.

“You don’t use perfume or after shave.” Sherlock murmured against his skin, making his way to the other side of John’s neck. “You took a shower last night and washed with a lavender soap.” He traced John’s ear with the tip of his nose, breathing into it. “Your mouth taste of black tea, toast and blueberry jam.”

John gasped. He tangled his fingers on that amazing curls, tugging Sherlock from his neck.

“You’re maddening, y’know?” John kissed his mouth, raising on his tiptoes to get better access. “You made a scene at the opening.” He nipped Sherlock’s lower lip, looking so close at those eyes he could see all his colors. “You made me dread you’d ruin me in your article.” John pulled him closer by the waist. “And now you come into my home and kiss me to get more answers?”

“You don’t look very angry.” Sherlock’s voice was deeper than usual, but with a hint of confusion.

John laughed and shook his head. He took a step back, releasing Sherlock’s hair. “But maybe we should take a breath.” He turned to his easel to hide the flush on his cheeks.

Sherlock frowned at their distance. He crossed his arms and looked at the canvas.

“It’s the sea. You’re struggling to find the color you like most.”

John made an affirmative noise and looked at Sherlock. The backlight enhanced every curl of the black hair and John almost moaned.

“Can I draw you?” He asked before he could get self-conscious. Drawing the toughest art critic of London didn’t sound like the best idea.

“What? Why?”

John took the canvas off the easel and put a blank paper. “You let me draw you and I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

“You never cease to surprise me.” Sherlock gave a little smile. “Sure, we could do that.”

John placed a high stool at the perfect light and Sherlock sat. They looked at each other for a moment, for the first time at the same height and very close again, and John almost forgot what he planned to do.

“John?” The deep voice was laced with amusement.

John coughed and turned around. “Drawing, right.” He took a piece of charcoal and traced the paper.

“How do you want me?”

John bit his lip, holding all the thoughts that flashed in his mind. “Right now you can stay like that, looking at me.”

Sherlock smirked. “And later?”

John shushed him. A smile at the corner of his lips. “I’m drawing. You’re gonna interrupt the inspiration flow.” He knew how the man hated that type of talking.

They stayed silent for some time, only the sounds of the charcoal and their breathing. John was shading his cheekbones when Sherlock broke the silence.

“What happened to your father?”

John was expecting the question. Without moving his eyes from the drawing he answered. “He died five years ago. He was the Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. There was an ambush and all of his men died.” He raised his eyes to Sherlock. “I was going to enlist the next year, Dad always wanted me to follow his footsteps.”

Sherlock frowned. “But you went to art school instead.”

“There are better ways to honor him.”

John went back to his drawing, his hands completely covered in charcoal. He smiled at the paper when a curl went exactly as he wanted. When he looked again at Sherlock, the blue eyes were sparkling.

“John, come here.”

“I’m almost—“

“Come here.” And that voice was like silk. How could he deny?

As soon as John crossed the distance between them, Sherlock pulled him between his legs. John, mindful of the state of his hand, just rested his elbows on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” And with a hand on the boy’s neck, Sherlock joined their mouths. While the other kisses were hot and passionate, this one was lovely and sweet. Sherlock stroked the nape of John’s neck with the tip of his fingers and John hummed.

Forgetting about the charcoal, John caressed Sherlock’s cheek, but the texture made him jump back.

“Oh, I’m so so—“ The way Sherlock looked right that moment, with the perfect backlight, shining eyes, moist lips and a smudge of black on his pale cheekbone made John lose it. He groaned and clashed their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you!  
> :D


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay. I was kinda panicking of writing this (I wrote smut before, but never in english).  
> So this chapter is for johnlockandwifi, because their adorable comment made me stop freaking out and write.  
> I think there will be only one more chapter after this and an epilogue.  
> Thank you all so much for the support.

It only took three seconds to Sherlock understand John’s reaction – would be faster if he wasn’t being so thoroughly kissed that moment. Without breaking the kiss, he started undoing his shirt’s buttons. Sherlock sensed John’s eyes on him and, with a smirk, he let the shirt and the jacket fall to the floor.

John stopped the kiss, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s and staring at the pale planes of his chest and stomach.

“Can I?”

“Of course.”

John bit his lip and Sherlock smiled at the scene. John was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with more than arousal. With determination, the boy began to trace his fingers on the sides of Sherlock’s neck, leaving behind dark charcoal. The shoulders, arms and sides of his body were next. Sherlock shivered, closing his eyes.

“You’re gorgeous.” John murmured, shading the charcoal at each muscle of Sherlock’s sides.

Sherlock opened his eyes and observed. “You never done this before. On someone’s body. The pleasure and the art are making you very aroused.”

John looked up at him, tracing the line on the middle of Sherlock’s stomach. “You’re lousy at taking compliments.” His touch left almost nothing behind, but he continued to trace each muscle. “You always deflect them?”

Sherlock gasped as the fingers reached his trouser, only outlining the fabric. “They are not as common as you might think.” And his voice was rougher than normal.

John looked at him in disbelief and Sherlock locked that image in his Mind Palace along with so many others. John’s room was getting bigger and bigger.

“You look like a piece of art. I should put you on my next exhibition. And then I doubt anyone would have a bad thing to say about you.”

Sherlock looked down at his body and a smile appeared. He looked toner and paler than usual, all the shadings at the perfect places. He felt flattered for John’s work.

“Maybe if I keep quiet we have a chance of success.” He deadpanned. And seconds later they were both laughing.

John eyes were shining. And Sherlock hoped he could make the boy laugh like that forever. And he wasn’t even scared about that thought, everything about John made perfect sense in his live, including his mysteries.

They kissed again as the laughter died down. Neither one of them knew who started. Their clothes followed Sherlock’s shirt on the floor as they moved through the flat. It would be easier if they stopped the kiss, but they were stubborn. John giggled as his foot got stuck on his jeans. Sherlock pushed him and the boy fell down on the bed. With a swift movement, Sherlock took off his jeans and socks and both of them were only in their pants.

John supported his body on his elbows, looking up. “We are going to ruin the sheets.” His hands already left some imprints.

Sherlock smirked. “You should have thought better before painting me as a canvas.” He lay over the boy, kissing his chest, shoulders and neck on the way up to his lips. Their chests rubbed together, ruining all the perfect shading John made. They gasped as their erections touched, John letting his body fall down and tugging Sherlock along by the hair to continue their kiss.

“Such a gorgeous canvas.” John kissed Sherlock’s cheekbone and jaw. His hands smeared the charcoal on Sherlock’s sides and lowered his pants.

Sherlock separated their bodies only enough to get rid of both of their pants and then straddled John’s hips. “You have very little inhibitions for your age.” The tone was of another deduction, even if he was grinding his hips down and rubbing their erections together.

John let a laugh escape between a moan, grasping Sherlock’s thighs. “I have the greatest art critic on my bed. If I do my best maybe he’ll write about me next time.” Sherlock moved his body forward and John’s cock nested between his cheeks, the pre-cum helping a little the friction.

“Maybe.”

Sherlock was flushed, his hair in disarray and he only had a moment to see the lust on the boy’s eyes before being flipped on the bed. He parted his legs and they rocked together, moaning between the kisses. John stretched his arm to the bedside table.

“You’ll have to prepare yourself.” He put the lube on Sherlock’s hand and rolled their hips one more time. “My hands are dirty.” But he could use his mouth, as he proved the following second.

Sherlock forgot what he needed to do and arched his back at the sensation. He had sex before, a couple of boring times, and it was never like this. He didn’t know that sex with teasing and laughter and charcoal could be so good. And this amazing 22 year old boy was proving everything he thought was wrong.

John hummed around him, looking up. Sherlock opened the lube and spread in his own fingers. His breath hitched as one finger entered. John was matching his mouth at the rhythm of his hand, or maybe it was the other way. The second and third fingers followed and his movements became more and more erratic.

“John, I need—“

And there they were, those dark blue eyes and the smile. John kissed him sweetly as he entered him. Their breaths hitched and Sherlock looped his legs around the boy’s waist. They moved slowly, eyes locked on each other.

“My beautiful, beautiful canvas.” John whispered. Sherlock gasped and pulled his head, crashing their lips. John increased the tempo of his movements, their moaning making kissing very head. He trailed his lips on Sherlock’s neck, sucking at the skin where the neck met the shoulder, marking him a little bit more permanently then the charcoal.

The change of the angle made John’s cock rub against his prostate and Sherlock gasped. His hands didn’t know what to do, grabbing John’s back, hair, neck, arms, everything he could reach. It was so overwhelming he was forgetting how to breathe.

John rested his forehead at his shoulder, the sweat tricking to his skin. “I’m so close. You want-?”

Sherlock sneaked his hand between their bodies and touched himself, trying to match the rhythm, arching his body. And it just took four strokes and he came, clenching around John and pulling him over the edge too. They moved together, enjoying the aftershocks until it became too much.

John groaned and pulled out, taking off the condom and tying it. He raised from the bed. Sherlock didn’t see where he went, his eyes closed, but knew the bathroom was a good option. Then the kitchen’s cupboard was opened, a glass filled and drank and soft footsteps came back. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John grinning at the foot of the bed.

“You really need a shower.”


	10. Chapter Nine

John woke up startled. One glance at the clock and he confirmed that he was late for work. He kicked off the sheets, but an arm held him in place.

“Sherlock, I have to go.” His back was pressed against the chest of the taller man. Lips began to kiss his neck. John could swear Sherlock was purring behind him.

“Boring part-time job at a book store.” The rough voice was right at his ear, giving John chills. The hand at his chest traced his body until grip at his naked hipbone. “You are already late. Your boss doesn’t like you very much – not your fault, you just remind her of an old lover –, so she will probably give you a hard time today.” Sherlock licked the nape of his neck. “You should call and resign.”

John fluttered his eyes shut, rolling his hips against the erection pressed between his buttocks. “You know I need the money, right?”

Sherlock made an affirmative noise, his mouth occupied kissing the spot between John’s shoulder and neck. He bit softly, getting a low moan from John. “And I also know that my boss always wanted me to have an assistant. I tried, but I hate everyone. But you.”

John twisted in his arms to be face to face. “You want me to work with you?” He frowned in disbelief.

“You are more than capable for the job. You have knowledge of art, both practical and theoretical. You are far less stupid than mos—“ John kissed him.

“I’m gonna stop you now.” He whispered inside the kiss. His hand found its way to Sherlock’s hair, playing with the curls. Their erections filled and rubbed against each other. Sherlock moaned, tracing every bit of John’s back with his hands, pulling him close.

As John’s mouth trailed to his neck, Sherlock took a needed breath. “You still need to call your boss. They will call you in seven minutes to ask where you are. We could rush this, but I have better plans.”

John groaned and flopped on his back. “Fine.”

Sherlock grinned and rose from the bed. The sheets fell from his body, all the pale skin long washed from the charcoal, giving John a sight he would remember forever. “You can make tea while you’re at it.” And disappeared through the bathroom door. Git.

***

That afternoon, after a lunch at a cozy Thai place, they walked together into the newspaper’s office. Sherlock hated going in on Mondays, but he needed to introduce John to Lestrade to arrange all of the formalities. At the entrance they met Donovan, the art critic of the daily paper.

“What are you doing here today, Freak?” John felt Sherlock going rigid at his side. She then looked at him. “Aren’t you the boy from the Friday’s exhibition?” Donovan asked, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but John was faster. “John Watson is my name.” He extended his hand. “And you are Sally Donovan, I read your column sometimes, when I’m really bored.” He grinned and pulled his hand back as she didn’t took it. “You were wrong about your assessments at the last one. You are usually mistaken. And I was told you liked my piece, so that’s not a good sign for me.” He rested his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back. “Now, if you excuse us, we’re late.”

Donovan stood gaping as they walked away. When they were almost out of hearing range, she muttered “Great, now we have two freaks.”

A giggle escaped John’s mouth and, as soon they were around a corner, both of them burst out in laughter.

“That was amazing.” Sherlock was grinning, his eyes shining as he looked down at John’s. “I knew I was right to keep you around.”

***

They sat with Lestrade, who was much nicer than Donovan, so John liked him immediately. After the surprise of Sherlock choosing an assistant this time, Lestrade talked about the details of the job and John couldn’t be more excited.

“I never thought of working with critics, but I always read the Sunday’s ones.” John looked at Sherlock and again to Lestrade. “Even if I wanted to punch the face of the git from the art session.”

“Well, maybe not punches, but now you can help him be less—“

Sherlock crossed his arms and used his deadly glare.

“Sherlockian?” John completed the phrase, smiling. “I don’t think this is possible.”

Sherlock’s glare dissolved and he smiled at John. Lestrade widened his eyes and choked on his coffee.

***

“Well, boss, what time do you need me tomorrow?” John looked up at Sherlock and smiled. They were at the entrance of the closest tube station from the editorial office, people streaming around them. John was almost late for uni.

“Come when convenient. We have a lot of work to do. I’m thinking about South American art. How the warm climate affects the use of colors.”

John raised on his tiptoes, pulling Sherlock down by the blue scarf, and kissed him briefly. “Sounds fun. Maybe I can paint you colorful and make you warm.” And with a smirk he turned around and ran for the tube.

Molly and Mary wouldn’t believe the last days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all.  
> this was the last chapter, now there's only the epilogue left.  
> <3


	11. Epilogue

Sherlock lost completely track of time. The living room of 221B Baker Street was dark, only the lights of the streetlamps filtering through the windows. He put down the violin in its case. Hours earlier he started playing Tchaikovsky for John, one of his favorites while painting, but probably he already went to bed. Sounds upstairs caught Sherlock’s attention and he raised his eyebrows. He was wrong, John was still awake.

Climbing the steps two by two, Sherlock entered the room to find John covered in paint. Sherlock could only see the back of the canvas, but it didn’t matter, the real art was in John’s movements and expressions. The younger man hadn’t realized he had company, his eyes focused on the strokes, the tip of his tongue peaking between his lips. Sherlock just observed, cataloguing every movement, learning each twitch of John’s pulse. From the fresh splatters on his hands and clothes Sherlock could almost see the painting.

“It’s the sea again.” John startled and looked at Sherlock. He smiled as he saw the confusion in Sherlock’s eyes. “But I can’t figure out why you keep painting it.”

John took a step back and looked at the painting. He yawned, covering his mouth with a hand full of paint, leaving a streak of greenish blue on his cheek. “I guess I lost track of time.” John gave a boyish smile. “I never find the right color.” He turned to the small sink and began washing his brushes.

Sherlock wanted to stride to him, envelope his arms around John’s waist and breathe in the blond hair. It would smell like tea, lavender, paint and home. But he was still in a suit, and he learned his lesson the last time – the cleaner ruined the fabric trying to clean it. So he just leaned his body in the door frame, following John with his gaze.

“It’s the mystery. You like the layers and nuances. You like the movements and unpredictability.” John hummed in agreement, closing the faucet and drying his hands in a piece of paper towel. “You enjoy the colors and how you never are satisfied with them, instead of being frustrated as others would.”

John laughed and closed their distance. Sherlock rubbed of the paint on his cheek with his thumb. John smiled as looking up at him.

“It’s you, you know? The sea.” Sherlock frowned. He saw that John wanted to touch him, but wouldn’t because of the suit. “Took me weeks to realize.” John let a laugh escape his lips. “I paint the sea that I see in your eyes. The color is never right because it’ll never be.” John climbed in his tiptoes, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s. They both closed their eyes. “You are the mystery, the layers and the unpredictability.” John whispered before closing the distance.

The next morning found them at the floor of the atelier. Sherlock head resting in his suit as John used his chest as a pillow. They were asleep, arms and legs tangled in an embrace. Above them, a canvas with a sea full of mysteries to be solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for everything.  
> I was so scared of writing in english (and writing at all, has been years since I wrote my last fic), and all your comments and love made me brave.  
> thank you, thank you, thank you.


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